


Ain't evil but I ain't a saint

by nataliaa



Series: I ain't nobody's baby, baby [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Backstory, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27716704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaa/pseuds/nataliaa
Summary: Nicolò understands how he ended up somewhere in the desert outside of Jerusalem, covered in sand and grime and blood, both his own and other people’s.What remains unclear to him is specifically how he has ended uphere, as in not dead and also having the best and angriest sex of his admittedly inexperienced life with a man who by all rights should also be dead. It completely defies his comprehension, especially when said man does something with his tongue that causes Nicolò’s brain to go as blessedly blank as a cloudless summer sky.Now with Chapter 2: from accidentally getting it on while trying to kill each other, to accidentally killing each other while trying to get it on.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: I ain't nobody's baby, baby [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202441
Comments: 81
Kudos: 528





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Having done the very-slow-burn-enemies-to-friends-to-lovers take on their backstory, it seemed only reasonable to try my hand at the immediate-hate-sex version. This was meant to be short and smutty, and instead they ended up mostly talking about their feelings anyway. Good grief.
> 
> Please note that Nicolò doesn't know Yusuf's name for most of this, and therefore cheekily refers to him as "the infidel". Absolutely no disrespect is meant by this, but please do let me know if I made a poor choice here and I will do better.
> 
> Title is from Elle King's "Baby Outlaw", because what are soundtracks for if not to provide fic titles.
> 
> To quote Sam Cooke, “Don’t know much about history, […] don’t know much about geography.”

Nicolò genuinely has no idea how he ended up here. That is to say, he understands all too well how he ended up somewhere in the desert outside of Jerusalem, covered in sand and grime and blood, both his own and other people’s. He is becoming painfully aware of each decision that led him to leave Genova, cross the Mediterranean, march across an utterly foreign land and rain violence upon people who, in retrospect, did absolutely nothing to deserve it. He feels like he is seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time in his life, and despite circumstances that are less-than-conducive to soul-searching, he is really trying to work through his life choices.

What remains unclear to him is specifically how he has ended up _here_ , as in not dead and also having the best and angriest sex of his admittedly inexperienced life with a man who by all rights should _also_ be dead. It completely defies his comprehension, especially when said man does something with his tongue that causes Nicolò’s brain to go as blessedly blank as a cloudless summer sky. He presses a hot, calloused hand to Nicolò’s hip, just next to the spot where he had disemboweled him not an hour earlier, and Nicolò can’t repress a full-body shiver.

Afterwards, Nicolò lies in the sand gasping for breath, still mostly naked and wondering vaguely how long the burn from the hot sun beating into his skin will last, now that he apparently can rise from the dead like a grotesque mockery of Christ. What’s even more disturbing is how profoundly satisfied he feels, despite his extreme physical and emotional unease.

The other man sighs next to him and Nicolò, out of the corner of his eye, watches as he wipes a dirty hand over his dirty face and push himself up on an elbow. He’s watching Nicolò, too, and not even bothering to hide the disgust on his face.

“You are truly not a good person,” he tells Nicolò matter-of-factly in his infuriatingly fluent Genoese. (“Know thy enemy,” he had gasped into Nicolò’s ear, mid-thrust, when Nicolò demanded to know why a foreign infidel spoke his own language, and he had not elaborated further.) “You might actually be the worst person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

Nicolò glares, spits back, “You wouldn’t know what goodness is if it bit you,”—and then he sees a drop of sweat sliding slowly down the man’s filthy neck and, hating himself even as he does it, Nicolò leans forward to catch it with his tongue. He bites down for good measure, thoroughly disgusted and not unaware of the irony. The man gives a startled moan that jolts through Nicolò. It’s horrible and he’s never felt more alive.

Exhausted though they both are, this leads to a new bout of vengeful, violent biting and sucking and grappling. It ends with the other man finally spitting out a mouthful of sand, shoving himself upright, and spitting again, this time just barely missing Nicolò’s face. Nicolò does not doubt that it is deliberate.

“Well,” the man says, gathering his sword and his waterskin. “God willing, I hope I never see your hideous face again.”

“God willing,” Nicolò hisses, with as much venom as he can muster while sprawled on his back and covered in rapidly-healing mouth-shaped bruises, “the desert will accomplish what I could not and finally release you from your wretched, misguided life.”

“Yes,” the man agrees, “because _I_ am the one who will suffer crossing this desert, surely. The last thing you will know in _your_ cruel and ugly existence will be the burn of thirst and the knowledge that you wasted your dying steps on the mirage of water.”

He turns and stalks off, and Nicolò is too angry to even throw one last insult at him. Infidel asshole.

—

The infidel asshole is right.

Nicolò is dying, yet again, and he’s pretty sure it’s the worst one yet. As it turns out, slowly succumbing to heatstroke and dehydration is far more excruciating than bleeding out from an abdominal laceration or being trampled by a warhorse. He desperately hates that he actually has this basis for comparison, almost as much as he hates knowing that he’s going to awake from death feeling like he’s had far too much of Brother Guglielmo’s wine. Almost as much as he hates the infidel.

He thinks he’s hallucinating when he imagines that he is being lifted up, away from the unbearably hot sand, and that there is a strangely familiar voice speaking in strangely gentle and soothing tones. Then he’s wet, abruptly, and there is blessed shade, and he’s not sure if he passes out or if he finally, briefly, dies.

—

When Nicolò awakes, the infidel is watching him with deep brown eyes and an unmistakably delighted expression. “Told you so,” he says smugly. This is somewhat mitigated when he passes Nicolò a waterskin that is somehow still nearly full and shockingly cool.

Nicolò’s throat feels infinitely less like he’s been trying to drink sand, but he still doesn’t trust his voice to make anything other than a sound that would be undoubtedly embarrassing, and his head is still hazy enough that he can’t hide his eagerness as he accepts the water.

“The really embarrassing thing,” the other man says, as though continuing a conversation that they had definitely not been having, “is that you were within easy distance of this, a real oasis.” He gestures broadly at the undeniable greenery that surrounds them. “Judging from your tracks, I’d say you walked right past it.”

Nicolò tries his best to look disdainful and disbelieving, but he is self-aware enough to admit that he probably fails. The worst part is that he _knows_ he’d been foolish, he knows he’d fallen for the mirage, but it had looked so _real_ and he’d been _so thirsty_. He had seen it shimmer, literally seen through the picture-perfect palm trees and crystal-clear spring, and yet he had continued dragging himself towards it with his literal dying breaths. He’d been naive, and he deserves to be dead.

Instead, he is frantically gulping the infidel’s water, practically choking in his eagerness. Nicolò might not be dead, but his dignity certainly is.

“All right,” the infidel says, reaching to take back his nearly empty waterskin, “enough. We don’t want your delicate stomach to rebel and embarrass you further.”

The scathing remark on the tip of Nicolò’s tongue evaporates instantly as the other man’s hand brushes against his and everything goes fuzzy. Suddenly, instead of clutching the waterskin, Nicolò is clutching an armful of not-entirely-unwilling infidel.

“Well,” Nicolò’s probably-still-enemy says bemusedly, “okay then.”

Nicolò very maturely decides not to be offended by his amusement, and instead opts to shut him up with his mouth. It is very effective, and the groans and incomprehensible curses are infinitely more gratifying than any quantity of cold water could ever be.

—

Nicolò does not expect to sleep better than perhaps he ever has in his life. He also does not expect to wake up surrounded by a heat more scorching than the desert itself. It's fortunate that his clothes were already filthy, because he's sweat right through them. He feels disgusting, and also disgustingly cozy.

There is a snuffling snort behind him, and the heat abruptly vanishes—or rather, diminishes to expected desert levels—at which point Nicolò realizes that the source of it was, in fact, the other man, wrapped snugly around Nicolò's back. Nicolò feels conflicted about this for a fleeting second before wishing that he would go back to smothering him with his entire body.

There's nothing for it, though: the man is awake and alert and, once again, rapidly packing up his scant belongings.

"Well," he says to Nicolò. "I really do hope we stop meeting like this. It would be very convenient for me if, the next time you die, you could kindly stay dead and prevent me feeling inexplicably obligated to undertake any future heroic rescues."

"That's not—you didn’t— _I_ didn’t—" Nicolò sputters, too insulted and crestfallen and angry to figure out what he's actually trying to say. What ends up coming out, in the end, is, "Where are you going?"

Fuck. _That_ certainly was _not_ what he meant to ask.

The man arches an eyebrow. "I really fail to see how that is any of your concern."

"Can I"— _Oh no_ , Nicolò thinks frantically, even as his mouth is moving, _don't do it, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, don't ask—_ “Can I come with you?"

The question is out there, somehow, against Nicolò's own will, and now that it is, he has no choice. He squares his shoulders and lifts his chin and stares at the other man with the last scraps of pride he can muster. It's not much, but he's doing his best with what he has left.

"You... you want to come with me," he parrots back uncertainly. 

"Yes,"Nicolò snaps. "You have understood my language infuriatingly well up until this moment. Did you just have a stroke? Did I stutter?"

"Why in the name of all that is holy would you want to come with me? You hate me!" The man either very charitably ignores the backhanded compliments and insults that Nicolò has just lobbed at him, or has decided there are more pressing matters to which he should attend, such as the fact that an errant undying man who has repeatedly killed him now apparently wishes to be travel companions. Nicolò would love to help him understand this, but he himself is at an utter loss.

“Of course I don’t hate you!” Nicolò shouts, and then snaps his mouth shut.

The other man, on the other hand, is gaping at him, mouth hanging so wide open that Nicolò is tempted to stick something in it. Like a finger. Or his cock.

“I, um,” Nicolò says weakly, shaking his head as if his hopeless confusion could be cleared as easily as water from the ears.

“You invaded a foreign land and killed countless innocent people for the crime of not sharing your faith,” he recites flatly. “You participated in the slaughter and destruction of people and places that I knew and loved, because of a faith that _I share_.” His tone is growing crisper, his eyes icier. “You killed _me,_ more times than I care to recall. And now you dare to claim that, despite all of this, you don’t hate me? You have the gall to ask if you can _come with me?_ ”

Nicolò makes an involuntary noise, but has no words with which to follow it.

The man shakes his head, far more slowly and deliberately than Nicolò had. “I am finished with this folly.”

Nicolò watches helplessly as the infidel walks away from him once again. It hurts almost as much as dying, which is a horrifying turn of events that he frankly can’t bear to consider too closely. With the realization that he has nowhere to go, and no way to get there even if he did, he flops backwards and resigns himself to another series of slow, repeated deaths.

—

Nicolò finally wanders out of the desert, borderline hysterical both with sunstroke that has not yet killed him and with the thought, inescapable now that he’s had it, that this is yet another completely sacrilegious parallel between himself and the Son of God. He’s practically giggling to himself as he all but collapses face-first into a shallow but rapidly-flowing trickle of water that might charitably be called a stream. He doesn’t care. He’s in no position to be picky about water sources.

He’s ripping the shredded rags of his clothing from his aching body, giving fervent thanks to a God who may or may not be listening to him for the opportunity to scrub some grime from his sun-scorched skin, and sparing not a single fuck for anything else, when he hears something behind him.

“What the fuck,” says the infidel asshole.

“Holy Mary Mother of— _shit_ ,” Nicolò exclaims, cursing again inwardly at not only the accidental blasphemy but also at the slippery stone that has caused him to land painfully on his ass at the most inopportune moment. He is excruciatingly aware of his nudity under the infidel’s unrelenting gaze.

“Are you actually _following_ me?” Asks the infidel. “Did I not make it clear that I never wished to lay eyes on you again? Or maybe you are not only as ugly as a donkey but also as stupid—”

“Oh, heaven give me patience,” Nicolò snaps. He used to be known for his calm composure; in the monastery and the army alike, his ability to remain clear-headed and focused in almost any situation had been widely praised.

“Does it _look_ like I was following you?” Nicolò gestures to where he is still sprawled in the stream. He’s pretty sure he’s shouting, and he absolutely does not care. “You think I was hoping you would stumble upon me, stark naked and flailing about in water less than a hand deep? Do you think I am _enjoying_ this? Well I have surprising news for you!”

He shoves himself upright and doesn’t think he imagines the other man’s eyes flicking down to his cock; he does his best not to flush any more than he already has. Their angry, desperate encounters have not actually involved the shedding of garments; this man has touched Nicolò’s cock, but has never actually seen Nicolo’s entire body. Nicolò resists the urge to cross his arms over his chest, or cup his hands over his groin, or turn tail and flee entirely. He succeeds at all three, but just barely.

“I don’t care where you go! I don’t care what you do! All I wanted was to scrub a desert’s worth of sand out of my skin and my clothes, and maybe sit in the shade afterwards in the hopes of resting without actually dying in my sleep for once! And then _you_ show up like this is some kind of _free show_ and I—”

Nicolò cuts himself off abruptly, as he actually looks at the other man properly. The infidel is even dirtier than Nicolò, hair and beard scraggly and matted, and his clothing and skin are splattered with what appears to be entirely more blood than the last time Nicolò laid eyes on him.

“What on God’s green earth happened to _you_?” It’s an inane question, Nicolò thinks, even as he asks it. What _hasn’t_ happened to either of them in recent months?

Now that Nicolò is paying attention, he sees how exhausted the infidel looks, how gaunt he is, how dark the smudges under his eyes have become. His anger evaporates.

The other man falls uncharacteristically silent, pulling off his stained clothes until he is just as naked as Nicolò before stepping into the water beside him. He begins splashing himself methodically, scrubbing his hands over his body in a perfunctory, utilitarian manner that nevertheless makes Nicolò swallow and glance downward, willing himself not to get hard.

“I was jumped,” the infidel says at long last, continuing to wash himself. He neither raises his voice nor looks at Nicolò; it’s unclear at first whether he actually is addressing Nicolò or simply speaking to himself.

“Right after we—” he hesitates almost imperceptibly before continuing “—we parted ways, the last time. They outnumbered me. I couldn’t—”

Nicolò waits to see if he will continue, but he seems to have forgotten he was speaking. “What happened?” He prompts after a minute, startling himself with how gentle his tone his.

The other man finally looks at Nicolò and gives him a rueful smile. “What do you think happened? They beat me. I healed. They noticed.” He shrugs, and his gaze drifts away again. “I’m not really sure how long I was held captive.”

The idea of somebody harming this man, somebody _other_ than Nicolò, causes an entirely different anger to bubble up in Nicolò’s chest. This man is _his_ , he finds himself thinking with a shocking ferocity. How _dare_ other men lay a hand on him, when Nicolò alone should—

Nicolò blinks hard. “I—I cannot be sure,” he says cautiously, “I’ve died many times since I last saw you, but I think that two months have passed. Maybe more.”

He’s not sure why he’s offered this information, nor what good it will do the other man to know just how long he was a prisoner.

The infidel stands up with a sigh, done with his bathing, and—oh. _Oh_ no. Nicolò is now standing eye-to-eye with him, and his beautiful golden skin, and the lean muscles of his shoulders and chest, and the dusting of dark hair leading the eye down to—

Nicolò snaps his gaze back upwards as quickly and inconspicuously as he can. He _thinks_ he’s gotten away with it—the other man is wiping his hands over his face and back through his wet curls, and then he shakes his head like a dog, sending drops of water flying out around him. It should look absurd, but when he lifts his head and meets Nicolò’s eyes, something makes Nicolò take a step toward him before he even realizes he’s moving.

“I—” Nicolò starts to say, and he has absolutely no idea where he’s going with it. Fortunately, his traitorous feet have brought him straight to the infidel, who swipes a thumb across Nicolò’s lips, trails it across Nicolò’s cheek and back toward his tangled hair, and replaces the thumb with his mouth.

The groan that Nicolò makes is frankly almost as mortifying as the way that his body practically snaps to the other man’s. They’re damp, and still less than clean, and exhausted, but the kiss is hot and messy and electric, and Nicolò thinks hazily that he would happily endure a hundred more deaths if he could only come back to this every time. Then the infidel’s teeth drag across his lower lip, and Nicolò doesn’t think any more for a long while.

—

They need to wash off again afterwards. Nicolò isn’t complaining, because the water is still blessedly cool, and this time he doesn’t bother to hide how blatantly he is staring at the infidel.

The infidel catches him, because he is staring back.

“I wanted to—” Nicolò starts to say, just as the infidel says, “You should know—”

“You first,” says the infidel, after a beat.

“No please, you first,” Nicolò replies. He cannot recall another time in his life when he has behaved with such bizarre chivalry.

“You should know,” the infidel says, again. His body is fully angled toward Nicolò, his eyes intent. “I feel—I am sorry.”

Whatever Nicolò was expecting, it most certainly was not an _apology_. He wracks his brain, tries to come up with something that this man has done to warrant Nicolò’s forgiveness. He comes up with nothing. (Well, there are the deaths, of course, but those were heartily reciprocated and as such, Nicolò had assumed they were somewhat even.) “Beg your pardon?”

“I should not have abandoned you.” He makes an aborted movement, almost as if he wants to reach for Nicolò, before withdrawing and clasping his hands awkwardly before him. “It was my fault that you died so many times.”

“Well,” Nicolò says cautiously, “yes.”

“I mean, yes, obviously, it was clearly my fault the first time. The first many times,” the infidel says hastily. “I do _not_ apologize for those deaths,” he continues, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

Fair enough, Nicolò thinks.

“But afterwards—in the desert. You died because I left you alone, defenseless, unable to make your way to shelter or find water in a place that you lack the skills and knowledge to navigate safely, weak and exposed like a lamb left—”

“Yes, all right, I understand,” Nicolò interrupts, before his pride can suffer any more blows. “But why are you apologizing for that? I thought it was what you wanted.”

The infidel winces, inexplicably. “I thought I did,” he admits. “But I should have known better. And when I was taken captive, I learned just how horrible and hopeless it is, to be alone and at the mercy of unending deaths.”

He meets Nicolò’s gaze, and Nicolò can only nod in what he hopes will be taken for both agreement and encouragement.

“I don’t want to be alone,” says the infidel, “but whatever has happened to me, it has also happened to you. I think the only way to not be alone now is for us to stay together.”

There is inexplicable and unwelcome moisture gathering at the edges of Nicolò’s eyes, and there is only so much he can do to keep it in through sheer force of will without also contorting his face into an expression that would doubtlessly _not_ convey the emotions he would like to convey at this particular moment. He swallows heavily and breathes through his nose.

“I owe you so many apologies, infinitely more than you could ever owe me,” he tells the infidel. His voice is humiliatingly raw, but the infidel gives no indication of having noticed Nicolò’s poorly-concealed agony. “I think it will take me a lifetime to even understand everything I have to be sorry for.

“But,” he continues, feeling more confident by the second as the infidel’s wide brown eyes urge him onward. “But God willing, this lifetime will be long. And I think I will be a better man for spending it by your side.”

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the suspicious brightness of the infidel’s eyes, nor the way he blinks rapidly for the briefest of moments.

“Well,” he says. Nicolò waits, but more words do not appear to be forthcoming.

“Was that everything you wanted to say?” Nicolò finally asks, hoping his tone comes off as politely disinterested.

“I guess so,” replies the puzzled infidel.

“Good.”

They are still naked, and standing in an ankle-deep creek, and the sun is blistering but Nicolò knows now that his sunburn will heal before it has the chance to peel. It’s not clear to him why they are still standing so far away from each other.

The infidel laughs in surprise and—maybe—something resembling delight when Nicolò bodily tackles him to the ground, clinging on with fingers that in another life would have left purple bruises on Nicolò’s pale torso. It’s the best thing Nicolò has ever heard, except for maybe the moan that follows it, and he decides then and there that he will spend the rest of his days trying to hear both of those sounds as frequently as possible.

—

“Yusuf,” says the infidel. He has pulled away from Nicolò just far enough to make pointed eye contact, and it’s not so much that Nicolò objects to his earnest gaze as he objects to no longer having the infidel’s tongue in his mouth.

“What?” Nicolò gasps.

“Given how, ah, intimate we have become,” the infidel says (and Nicolò is really not in the mood for one of his eloquent but long-winded speeches right at this moment), “I thought maybe you could stop calling me _infidel_ and perhaps use my given name instead. Yusuf.”

“Oh.” Let it never be said that Nicolò is not eloquent in his own right.

“And,” the infi— _Yusuf_ —continues, tracing his hands idly along Nicolo’s sides in a way that makes him shiver impatiently, “I thought, maybe, you would also like to tell me _your_ given name. You know, so that I can stop calling you _Frankish imbecile_.”

“You call me _that_?” Nicolò objects. “I’m not even a Frank!”

“Well, I only call you that in my head, since I am both better-spoken and better-mannered than you are,” Yusuf says with a shrug.

“I’ll show you manners,” Nicolò mutters. He gives a strategic little shove, and suddenly Yusuf is on his back in the sand with Nicolò pressed on top of him.

Nicolò is sucking a trail down Yusuf’s sweaty, salty neck when he remembers abruptly—

“Nicolò,” he breathes into Yusuf’s ear, and then grazes his teeth along the lobe. Yusuf inhales sharply and squirms, so Nicolò holds him more firmly, rolls his hips, and then it all devolves yet again until all Nicolò can think is _Yusuf_.

Centuries later, Nicolò still remembers the shiver that ran through him the first time Yusuf gasped his name as he came with Nicolò’s mouth around him.

Centuries later, Yusuf delights in reminding him that he denied being a Frank, but never an imbecile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Yusuf kills Nicolò for the first time in a year, it’s an accident. Or rather, his actions are very deliberate, but he’s ninety-five percent asleep at the time, so Nicolò is willing to call it accidental. It’s shockingly charitable of him, particularly since Yusuf’s aim is a little off and Nicolò bleeds out far more slowly and painfully than he would like.
> 
> Two weeks later, somewhere approaching Constantinople, Nicolò pushes Yusuf off a cliff. It’s mostly an accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't seem to leave these idiots alone, so please have an unexpected continuation of them trying to work through their shit and cursing like millennials despite the fact that they are medieval thirty-somethings. 
> 
> As per usual, please be aware that this contains canon-typical violence and (temporary) death. Also as per usual, there is somehow more angst and less smut than I intended. Oops.

When Yusuf kills Nicolò for the first time in a year, it’s an accident. Or rather, his actions are very deliberate, but he’s ninety-five percent asleep at the time, so Nicolò is willing to call it accidental. It’s shockingly charitable of him, particularly since Yusuf’s aim is a little off and Nicolò bleeds out far more slowly and painfully than he would like.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he gasps, then goes back to gritting his teeth and pressing his hands uselessly to the bloody gash. “Did you have to go for the kidneys? You _know_ how much this hurts, after all this time I can’t believe you would just—”

“I didn’t _mean_ to!” Yusuf hisses. “It was self-defense! I thought I was being strangled! Fuck,” he adds ruefully, wadding up a blanket to try and apply more effective pressure to Nicolò’s side.

“I was not _strangling_ you,” Nicolò shoots back, “I was having a nightmare. And then I woke up into another one, so thanks for that.” It’s getting harder to breathe and and the blanket is absolutely not helping at all. _Speaking of which_.

“Stop that,” he wheezes, trying to bat Yusuf’s hands away. “That’s our only blanket.” He’s going to be fucking freezing when he comes back. If he comes back. _Fuck_.

“I’m trying to save your life,” Yusuf snaps, shoving the blanket more forcefully, then pulling it away hastily when Nicolò is unable to repress a sound that he refuses to categorize as a _whimper_.

“Well, you’re the one who stabbed me in the first—just _stop_ already, I’m going to die, it’s too late, and it’ll be fine, probably.” Nicolò closes his eyes and tries not to think about how everything is getting very cold and fuzzy around the edges, and they only have one blood-soaked blanket.

“What if it’s not though?” Yusuf’s voice is hoarse and anguished enough that Nicolò cracks an eye. His face is much closer to Nicolò’s than expected, and his eyes look suspiciously bright. “What if I—what if you don’t—”

“But we both know _I will_ , so can you just—not—” He’s pretty sure—well, at least fifty-fity—that he believes it as he says it, even though he can tell his blood loss is reaching a critical point. Yusuf clearly knows too, because he stops trying to staunch the wound and instead starts sort of frantically caressing Nicolò’s face. It would be sweet, except that it is decidedly not the kind of thing they do at this point in their whatever-this-is. Nicolò is also vaguely aware that Yusuf is gently smearing Nicolò’s own blood all over his cheeks. It’s disgusting, and he tells Yusuf as much.

Yusuf snatches his hands away and glares. “Fine. Will you just die already then?”

 _That’s more like it_ , Nicolò muses. “It would have been faster if you’d aimed a little better.” He coughs breathlessly. “You’re getting out of practice.”

“Oh fuck you,” Yusuf retorts, and that’s the last thing Nicolò hears before he really can’t breathe anymore.

—

Nicolò gasps back to life choking on the air suddenly flooding his lungs, overwhelmed by the deafening thump of his heartbeat in his ears. His eyes blink open and he immediately squeezes them shut, the world too bright, too much. Coming back hurts almost as much as dying sometimes, he thinks, thrust abruptly back into existence midway through the healing process. He imagines the feeling to be somewhat like being struck by lightning, although he desperately hopes he never has to find out if this is true.

It takes a minute to become aware of anything beyond his body, to remember where he is and what happened and, in this case, to register the vise-like grip around his left hand. He wriggles his left fingers experimentally and the pressure disappears immediately.

“Thank God,” Yusuf says, with more feeling than Nicolò has managed on _that_ subject since roughly his fourth death.

Nicolò cracks an eye and squints up at him. “Don’t think so,” he rasps.

Yusuf slaps a hand down over Nicolo’s mouth, pulls it back just as quickly, and proceeds to actually _wring his hands_ while gazing down at Nicolò in a manner that makes Nicolò avert his eyes uneasily.

“That took… a long time,” Yusuf says uncertainly.

“Congratulations,” Nicolò replies. “Sounds like you finally almost succeeded. Better luck next time.”

“For the _last time_ , it was—”

“An accident,” Nicolò supplies. “Sure.” He makes the mistake of looking up at Yusuf—at his disheveled curls and his pink lips peeking out from his beard, their faces close enough that Nicolò can see the faint freckles scattered across his nose—and something in his chest squeezes painfully. He’d like to chalk it up to the healing process, but he suspects it’s a sensation that’s not entirely physical.

“I’m fine,” he says hesitantly. After all, it’s not like this is the first time he’s died at Yusuf’s hands. There was a period, not so long ago, when upon reviving he hardly had time to locate the closest weapon at hand before he was once again fighting for his life.

Yusuf’s only reply is to shoot him a deeply dubious look, and then Nicolò feels warm hands prodding at his abdomen, at the stab wound that is now nowhere to be found despite the remaining bloody evidence. Yusuf’s touch is soft and steady, which is not at all how Nicolò would characterize their previous physical interactions. Horrifyingly, he finds a ticklish spot, and Nicolò has to shove him away before his body betrays him with anything as undignified as _wriggling_ or _giggling_.

He still doesn’t know what to do with the weird sensations fluttering through his body, but he’s clearly finished healing, so he hooks a foot around Yusuf’s calf, flips them so Yusuf lands on his back, and leans in to bring them back to more familiar territory. Nicolò isn’t sure if he imagines Yusuf hesitating for a fleeting moment, but then it’s over and Yusuf is leaning up to crush his warm lips against Nicolò’s, gasping as Nicolò licks into his mouth, nothing gentle about it.

Nicolò would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little pissed off about being killed, especially when he has been working _so hard_ to not kill Yusuf recently. But between the recent resurrection and the nightmare that sparked the incident, he’s feeling fairly out of sorts, and not nearly as angry as he’s entitled to be. It’s especially difficult to stay mad when Yusuf, asshole that he is, rolls his hips upward just enough to barely brush Nicolò’s rapidly hardening cock

“I hate you so much,” Nicolò groans, rocking down and relishing the sound of Yusuf’s sharp gasp at the sudden friction.

“I know.” Yusuf’s hands are everywhere, spread across Nicolò’s back, his fingertips digging in along Nicolò’s shoulder blades, working their way up to his deltoids and back down the arms that Nicolò has bracketed on either side of Yusuf’s head. “I hate you, too.”

—

Two weeks later, somewhere approaching Constantinople, Nicolò pushes Yusuf off a cliff. It’s mostly an accident.

“He was ripping me off!” Nicolò snaps, yet again, as they stride angrily out of town. Well, at least Nicolò is striding angrily. Yusuf, on the other hand—his whole friendly, gentle naiveté thing is _really_ starting to get on Nicolò’s last nerve. “He was clearly attempting to take advantage of my presumed lack of any knowledge whatsoever regarding the market price of olives, but the joke’s on him because I was not born yesterday and I would never _dream_ of paying such an exorbitant price for such mediocre—”

“Wallahi Nicolò, you were supposed to _haggle._ ” Yusuf’s voice is muffled, and when Nicolò pauses to glance back over his shoulder, Yusuf is holding his face between his palms, slowly shaking his head.

“Absolutely not,” Nicolò argues. “He insulted me, insulted my intelligence, I’m certain he insulted my _mother—_ ” Nicolò’s Greek isn’t perfect, but the merchant had definitely implied _something_ untoward.

“No,” Yusuf sighs, “he suggested that you might like to buy the olives _for_ your mother. Which, come to think of it, maybe he actually did insult you. Tell me, Nicolò, would you consider being mistaken for a Byzantine an insult? To me, of course, you Christians are all the same, but perhaps—”

Nicolò starts walking again, putting as much distance as possible between himself and that godforsaken village. Not to mention his infuriating travel companion. How Yusuf could take the side of that rude little man, after everything he and Nicolò had been through together, was truly inconceivable. And on top of everything, Nicolò had really wanted to buy some olives. Now he’s pissed off _and_ hungry.

“Hey, Nicolò,” Yusuf is calling from behind him, footsteps getting closer. “Wait up! You know I didn’t mean anything by it, come on.”

“Oh fuck off,” Nicolò says without turning around. Let Yusuf hustle if he wants to catch up, Nicolò has been embarrassed enough for one day.

The path out of the village winds along a ridge, rocky and exposed. Nicolò’s sour mood intensifies as the wind and the sun scorch his face. Neither the pain nor the color of the resulting burn will last, but Yusuf will still tease him in his affectionate, unbearable way. Nicolò hates it.

“Seriously, Nicolò, I was just trying to—”

“Help, yes, I know!” Nicolò is fully aware that he is actively blowing this out of proportion, but having Yusuf remind him of it just makes him feel even more like a petulant toddler. He finally whirls around to face Yusuf.

“The thing is, I _somehow_ managed to keep myself alive for three full decades before you came along and decided I don’t know how to do anything!”

Yusuf has skidded to a stop just before Nicolò, and for once in his verbose life is simply regarding Nicolò with a dumbfounded look. “That’s not at all—”

“Could you, for once, just let me _speak uninterrupted_?” Nicolò snaps. “Heaven forbid that some of us take a moment to gather our thoughts, or struggle more with a foreign tongue, than you and your endless declaiming require. And I will never _learn_ if you insist on intervening and interpreting at _every opportunity_.

“Moreover,” Nicolò says, wondering absently at the torrent of speech pouring out seemingly independent of active thought, “if we agree on nothing else, I think we can both conclude that it is very fucking obvious that I am not from around here, and we are removed enough from the battles that nobody else fucking cares! You don’t need to show me the proper way of wrapping a keffiyeh or insist that I would blend in better if I grew out my beard. It looks ridiculous and you know very well how much I hate it!”

Nicolò runs a hand across the patchy hair on his cheeks for emphasis. He’s always been self-conscious about his facial hair, and had preferred to remain clean-shaven since he was old enough that the novelty of having a terrible adolescent mustache had worn off.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf tries again, “I never meant—” He reaches out, hand extended toward Nicolò, and _this_ is a move that Nicolò knows all too well because it _works_ on him, all too well. Yusuf makes his eyes big and bright, and his tone gentle and pacifying, and Nicolò just lets him fucking talk him into whatever he wants.  
  
Well, not this time. He swats Yusuf’s hand away, shoves him lightly by the shoulders for good measure, and has spun halfway back around to keep marching along while he sulks—

He expects to have pushed Yusuf from pacifying to pissed off, to have finally sparked the anger that, although difficult to light, burns hot once aflame.

What he does not expect is to have pushed Yusuf _literally_ off the path and over the steep edge of the mountain ridge.

For a moment, Nicolò is frozen, watching Yusuf tumble and bounce between rocks and bushes. It is a _long_ way down.

“Mother _fucker,_ ” Nicolò hisses, looking frantically up and down the path. There is absolutely nothing even remotely resembling a track down the the ravine. The only way to get there, without a very long and uncertain detour, is the steep route Yusuf that is currently taking very much against his will.

Yusuf finally hits the rocky ground at the bottom. “Shit shit shit,” Nicolò mutters. It’s obvious what he has to do, and he’s going to do it, but he doesn’t have to _like_ it. Yusuf hasn’t moved yet, though, so Nicolò scrubs a hand over his face, secures his bag across his body, and shoves himself over the edge after Yusuf.

His plan, which is to undertake a somewhat controlled slide down on his back, lasts about a half a second, at which point his foot snags on a rock, and suddenly Nicolò is tumbling ass over teakettle. Really, he muses, it’s nothing less than he deserves.

It feels like fucking _forever_ before he lands with a thump and an ominous snap in his right arm, all the breath knocked out of him but somehow still alive. He pushes himself upright on his good arm, trying very hard to ignore the extremely unpleasant sensation of his bones rearranging themselves inside his skin—truly, an experience to which Nicolò cannot fathom ever becoming accustomed—just as Yusuf coughs and groans. By the time his eyelids flick open, Nicolò has managed a half-dragging, half-lunging movement that propels him squarely into Yusuf’s line of vision.

Yusuf promptly squeezes his eyes shut again. “No, please,” he groans, “being dead was better. At least it was peaceful.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò begins, “I am _so_ so—” He cuts himself off as Yusuf begins to shake his head, until something in his neck cracks and he freezes.

“I keep thinking,” Yusuf says through clenched teeth, “that eventually I might stop ruing the day we met. But apparently not yet.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” Nicolò says, watching closely as Yusuf winces and starts pushing himself into a seated position. By the time he’s upright, Yusuf movements have become less stiff and his expression less pained.

“It was an accident, right?” Yusuf says dryly.

“ _Yes_!”

“And everything you said before you _pushed me off a fucking cliff_ , was that also an accident?” Yusuf crosses his arms over his chest. Nicolò tries very hard not to get distracted by the long lines of his fingers or the way his shirt pulls across his biceps.

“No,” Nicolò admits, “I—I meant all of that. But I didn’t mean it _like_ _that_. I know you—” He huffs out a sigh; he’s had a lot of practice recently admitting that he was wrong, but that still doesn’t mean he enjoys it. Or is particularly good at it. But for Yusuf—as it turns out, there are a lot of things that Nicolò never imagined doing, that he is willing to do for Yusuf. Like throw himself off a cliff, for example.

“I know you mean well,” Nicolò says, “and I know you’re just trying to help.” He risks a look up at Yusuf’s face and finds Yusuf’s gaze already on him, an eyebrow quirked skeptically but eyes soft. “I’m not used to it,” he adds quietly. “Nobody ever—nobody’s ever cared like that, about me, I don’t think.”

Where the fuck did this come from? Nicolò has no blessed idea, and he’d really like to make it stop, but he’s not sure how, short of clamping his mouth firmly shut. Or—

Nicolò leans sideways, more abruptly than either of them were expecting. His nose bounces off Yusuf’s cheek at first, and then he can feel the surprised _O_ of Yusuf’s mouth against his, but then it melts away, and Nicolò adjusts the angle, and Yusuf brings a hand to Nicolò’s cheek, running those elegant fingers across his jaw hesitantly, then firmly.

Nicolò is very certain that he has done nothing in his life to merit this, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to complain.

Yusuf pulls away. “I would have stopped. You should have just told me you were uncomfortable.”

“Yes, well.” Nicolò avoids Yusuf’s earnest gaze by pressing a kiss to his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against Yusuf’s ear. “I just wanted you to be as pissed off as I was, instead of fucking infuriatingly rational and—and kind.”

Yusuf huffs out a breath on Nicolò’s ear, which makes him shudder delightfully even though he can’t tell if Yusuf is amused or annoyed. Maybe both.

“For what it’s worth,” Yusuf mutters, “I’m actually constantly pissed at you. Almost everything you do makes me a little angry in one way or another. Sometimes,” he says, even quieter, “I think I’m just pissed that I’m not as angry with you as I think I should be.”

Nicolò has to sit back on his haunches while he parses that. “You’re angry at me because you’re not angry enough at me?”

Yusuf winces and shrugs. “You can be quite horrible and I… I really wish I didn’t find it so endearing?” Yusuf sounds as uncertain about it as Nicolò feels, but he kisses Nicolò again before he has a chance to work out a reply.

Nicolò lets him.

—

“I had a nightmare.”  
  
Nicolò isn’t sure what compels him, later, to turn around in Yusuf’s arms so that they’re facing each other, nose-to-nose, and engage in some very uncomfortable honesty.

(It might be the fact that, after giving Nicolò the most amazing and entirely undeserved orgasm he’d had since at least the _last_ time Yusuf had made him come, Yusuf had rolled over, rummaged through his rucksack, and fished out a bag of slightly squashed olives. “I bought them for a very faire price after you threw your hissy fit,” he’d in a tone that dared Nicolò to question his haggling. As _if_ Nicolò gave a singular fuck about about _anything_ else when he was sitting between Yusuf’s thighs eating the most delicious olives of his entire fucking life. He’d showed his appreciation by flipping Yusuf over and giving as good as he got.)

“You had a nightmare,” Yusuf agrees sleepily. His eyelids are heavy, his whole body loose, one arm draped heavily over Nicolò.

“It was about you,” Nicolò says, and watches Yusuf’s eyes open marginally more.

Yusuf makes a half-movement with his head, as if to look around at the two of them, their bodies intertwined and cast in the shadows of the small fire he’d built before they’d settled down to sleep. He quirks an eyebrow.

“The night you stabbed me.”

“O… kay?”

“We were—” Nicolò has no idea what is possessing him to do this, but he swallows and pushes on. “We were back at Jerusalem. Back at the battle. Right in the middle of it. There were men falling all around me, and I could hear them—and _smell_ —it was—well, you remember,” Nicolò says. He tries to unclench his jaw. It had felt so real, like he was living through it all over again, watching the earth slowly grow dark with blood and the air heavy with death.

“I saw you,” he tells Yusuf, who nods seriously. “But I didn’t kill you. I kept watching as—other invaders killed you. Over and over. In front of me. And I couldn’t—” He swallows heavily. “I couldn’t stop them. I tried to push them away. I tried to kill _them_. But there were so many of them, and I—I just kept watching you die. Right in front of me.”

Yusuf is looking at him carefully, fully awake now. “Okay?” He says again.

“You kept _dying_ and I _couldn’t stop it._ ” Nicolò can feel himself getting worked up, heartbeat thumping louder in his ears, face hot and flushed.

The nightmares are nothing new; he’s been having them almost every night since he first died. He has relived his deaths, and Yusuf’s deaths, and the horribly permanent deaths of the men with whom he had traveled to Jerusalem and the men who they had all thought they were called there to massacre.

But this one—this was the first time the dream deviated from reality. For the first time, he was watching _other_ men kill Yusuf. For the first time, he was trying to _save_ him. It had been unbearable.

Yusuf squirms a bit, arm lifting up and away from Nicolò—who panics briefly—and then his hand cups Nicolò’s cheek, cool and soothing.

“It’s okay,” Yusuf says softly.

“Is _okay_ the only word you remember?” Nicolò snaps, and instantly regrets it. “I—” He grabs Yusuf’s wrist, keeping the hand on his cheek in place, but has no idea what he wants to say.

Yusuf doesn’t even flinch, just keeps gazing steadily at Nicolò. “I’m not dead,” he says, in that same soft, steady tone. His thumb swipes back and forth across Nicolò’s cheekbone.

Nicolò recognizes that he’s being treated like a spooked horse, but the thing is, it’s _working_. Yusuf is warm and solid, and so completely unlike anyone Nicolò has ever known before, and yet he somehow seems to understand Nicolò better than anyone else ever has. He smiles at Yusuf, a small, nearly imperceptible thing, but Yusuf sees it and the corners of his eyes crinkle in reply. Nicolò is starting to believe that maybe he also knows Yusuf better than anybody else ever could

Nicolò watches the dim flames reflect off of Yusuf’s eyes, and he can’t stop his grin spreading, slowly overtaking his entire face. He’ll throw himself off a thousand mountains before he’ll harm Yusuf again. He’ll die a hundred times before allowing anyone else to kill Yusuf.

“No,” he agrees, “you’re alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you pictured the scene in The Princess Bride where Buttercup pushes the Dread Pirate Roberts/Westley down a steep hill, then immediately throws herself down after him... Well, you're not the only one.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this little snippet of a story! <3


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